Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 87695 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87695 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
That gets me. My jaw shuts with a click. My fingers tighten on the pillow. Where has Alex been? And what’s he been doing? This isn’t the first time he disappeared, but usually he has some kind of excuse. Visiting family out of state, taking a temporary construction job for some side cash, meeting potential clients for a web development business he started (and abandoned). He’d answer texts at least, if they were usually short and to the point. This time, it was nothing. No excuse, no contact. Just silence.
“If you really hurt him, you’re going to regret it.” I cover my discomfort and confusion with aggression. Another trick I learned from my lovely family. Don’t know what else to do? Go straight to violence. Pain is the universal language.
“Oh, come on, Alina. You seriously liked that guy? Are you really pretending like he was more than just a fun distraction?”
“You don’t know me. And you’re never going to.”
“Ah, now, you’re wrong about that. We’re going to get very, very acquainted. I’d say we already have.”
“Fuck you.”
“I was worried about this marriage, but after the show you put on for me—”
I hang up on him.
Seething with rage, I throw my phone across the room. It slams against the wall and hits the floor with a clatter. I scream and throw the pillow after it.
I feel so stupid. What a mortifying, pathetic thing to do. I put myself out there, took a risk on some stupid asshole guy, and this happens. The absolute worst-case scenario.
But what makes it all so twisted is I don’t even know if Seamus was lying.
Because it could be true. I know my father’s been getting close with the Whelans lately, and I’m fully aware of how families like ours cement their relationships.
That’s been an option since the day I was born.
Dad never let me forget it.
My duty to the family is more important than anything else.
He gave me whatever I wanted: money, a top-notch education, business loans to start my boutique, my own apartment, designer dresses, everything.
With the tacit agreement that, one day, I’d pay him back. Either financially or in other ways.
“You bastard,” I say, fighting tears, but I can’t hold them back. My shoulders shake as I cry. “You asshole. You piece of shit.”
He should’ve told me.
That’s the least he could’ve done.
Except I can’t even be surprised. I’ve always been an afterthought. The little bratva baby, the princess, the pretty pawn.
Never a person, always a prize.
After a couple of minutes, I calm myself down and get dressed. I opt for baggy sweats and a big hoodie before I grab the keys to my BMW and storm out of my high-end apartment building.
I don’t care if it’s nine at night—my father is going to explain what the hell is going on.
And he’s going to do it straight to my face.
Whether he likes it or not.
Chapter 2
Alina
My father’s housekeeper, Katya, meets me at the front door. She gives me one look before letting out a long sigh. “What did he do now, Alinochka?”
“Just tell me he’s still awake.”
“Your father’s in his office, but really, you look angry.” Katya’s frown deepens. “Honestly, what happened?”
I’ve known her all my life, and there are very few people in this world who I trust more, but I’m too embarrassed to tell her what’s going on. I video called my secret boyfriend topless, but my future husband answered and ogled my bare tits instead. And oh, yeah, Dad arranged my marriage to a stranger without telling me.
It’s all way too pathetic.
Instead, I shake my head, lips set in a hard line. “I just need to talk to him.”
“I’ll let him know you’re here.” She hurries off, looking worried. I give her a few seconds before following after, even though I’m supposed to wait in the front hall. Right now, I’m too angry to play by the rules.
The Morozov building is a massive property on the Upper East Side. It’s three brownstones connected together on the corner of a quiet, shady street. Most of the houses around here are obscenely wealthy doctors, lawyers, and powerful CEOs. I doubt they realize my father lives among them, a wolf pretending to be a very rich lamb.
The floors are all expensive, original hardwood. My father’s collection of Russian artists hangs on the walls. They’re all ugly and dour. Not my taste at all. I pass a dozen different rooms, most of which never get used, but Papa makes sure the staff keeps them all pristine in case a visitor goes wandering.
The entire compound is designed around maximum shock and awe, and it was a real hellhole to grow up in, at least when I was around. Mostly I got shuttled between boarding schools in the northeast and in the UK. I did four years at Vassar to get a marketing degree before settling in the apartment I own now, over in an obscenely expensive building in Hudson Yards.